


The vast improbability of us

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [12]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter finds him painting and watches silently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The vast improbability of us

**Author's Note:**

> Have stolen one line from an actual conversation on LJ. I said it, so I figured it was fair game. I would say that this is all I'm writing of this series, but who knows. I can't seem to stop.

Peter and El discussed the possibility of Neal moving in ad nauseum. They were aware it was like trying to housetrain a mountain lion, that Neal in a suburban setting was akin to bringing a loaded gun to a party and hoping really hard that no one would get hurt. That, to Neal, words like ‘legally questionable’ and ‘possible moral gray area’ were like moving, irresistible targets.

What they hadn't discussed was what they would tell the neighbors.

 

\---

 

Pulling up to his house has become an exercise in abject humiliation. The garden gnomes, the penis mushrooms, Peter’s house looks like it belongs to a wicked witch who eats small children.

Peter narrows his eyes, watching Neal laugh animatedly with the elderly neighbor who lives across the street, and who Peter knows with absolute certainty reports everything that goes on at the Burke’s to her weekly kitting circle. 

He waits until Neal’s alone to pull him aside. "What were you talking about?"

"She wanted to know if I was your son."

"What," Peter says. It's true, there's a bit of an age gap, but -- holy shit, she thought Neal was his _son_? He feels the endless, unrelenting expanse of a life filled with Neal mocking him and calling him ’daddy’ flash before his eyes, and shudders.

Neal laughs easily. "Relax, Peter. I tell everyone I'm a gentleman thief turned CI turned occasional FBI consultant, " Neal says. He tips his hat at another neighbor.

Peter looks disbelievingly at him. "You're a menace, is what you are."

"Gross overstatement," Neal says mildly, crouching down to straighten one of his penis mushrooms.

 

\---

 

When he feels like it, Neal generally paints in the dining room where he says the light is best.

Peter finds him painting and watches silently. Tubes half-full, twisted are scattered all over the table, his white t-shirt stained with deep reds and blues, a smear of green across one cheek. Early on, they’d discovered that Neal had to stop painting shirtless because El found it too distracting; she’d nearly lost a finger one time while craning her neck trying to watch Neal and chopping vegetables.

The light catches in his hair, turns the dark brown strands gold where it touches and bends around the tousled curls, creating a halo of light. It would be breathtakingly lovely if Peter didn’t know what kind of terribleness lurked beneath the angelic sight.

Peter once asked why Neal didn’t paint more original art, and Neal shrugged, said he didn’t have a clear enough identity and quickly changed the subject. 

Neal frowns, puts his paintbrush down, canvas half-covered as he stretches his back languidly, like a cat after a mid-morning nap, and makes a soft frustrated sound in the back of his throat. He gathers up his paints, clearly done for the day. 

Peter slips out before Neal sees him, trying not to think about the fact that Neal hasn’t finished anything since moving in. 

 

\---

 

“Neal,” Peter says, sipping his coffee. He resists the urge to fidget. He knows Neal will spot it immediately, do anything in his power to avoid an awkward conversation, including but not limited to getting naked, telling Peter about something illegal he’s done recently, and once proclaiming loudly that he had to use the restroom and then escaping out the window. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but they’d been at a nice restaurant at the time. 

Neal hums at him, not looking up from his paper.

“Do you want to, I don’t know, have some people over?” Peter says, faux casually, acting like this is off the cuff, like it has just occurred to him, like it’s nothing. 

(It’s not nothing -- For days, Peter’s been twisting himself up inside about how unhappy Neal looks, how he can’t seem to finish a painting. Peter’s not sleeping well. He’s got constant indigestion, Rolaids have become an awful and necessary food group.)

Neal shoots Peter a quizzical look. “Invite whom, exactly?”

Peter presses his hands flat against the table. “Mozzie, Alex--”

“Have you lost your mind?” Neal asks, mouth curling into a small, amused grin. 

It’s a distinct possibility. Neal has that effect on Peter. 

Peter says, “It was just an idea, I guess. So -- you can. This is your home, too, you know.”

Neal blinks at him. “I know,” he says slowly. “I get mail here. All the neighbors know me.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? They don’t know him. They either assume Neal’s his son or he and El are great big perverts and keeping a live-in boytoy, but they really don’t know _anything_ because Peter’s been squirreling Neal away, embarrassed and awkward, and Peter hates having Mozzie over because Mozzie snoops through all the cabinets and takes an hour to sweep for bugs before he’ll goddamn sit down like a normal person, and Peter wants Neal to _belong_ but he has the sneaking suspicion that he’s inadvertently, carelessly, forced Neal into playing yet another role. He’s been unfair to Neal and borderline cruel.

“Jesus, Neal--,” Peter starts, but he can’t. He doesn’t have the words, he’s just so fucking sorry.

Neal looks at him quietly, gaze sharp and knowing, like he understands Peter far better than Peter can ever understand himself. It’s easy for Peter to forget sometimes how well Neal reads people, that he does it for a living. 

“I’ll invite Mozzie over,” Neal says finally.

Peter lets out the breath he’s been holding all this time. “Good, that's great,” he says. “I’ll lock up the valuables.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Neal says, opening up his newspaper again and Peter thinks that’s the end of conversation, but Neal adds, almost under his breath, “Locks won’t keep Moz out.”

 

\---

 

“Good morning,” Mrs. Robson calls out to Peter and Neal as they head towards their front door.

Peter takes a deep breath, yells back, "This is my much younger lover who lives with me and my wife in a polyamorous relationship.” The words leave his mouth in a horrible, jumbled rush. 

Peter licks his lips. His throat is so dry, his voice sounds like wind rushing over hollow reeds. He's literally wheezing with embarrassment. 

"Okay," she says back, squinting a little and adjusting her glasses. Peter sincerely doubts she heard or understood any of what he just said, but it doesn't matter, really. That’s not the point.

Next to him, Neal's gone stiff with surprise, but Peter risks a quick glance at Neal and Neal's eyes are bright, shining, and his mouth is pulled into an irrepressible smile -- genuine, uncomplicated and happy.

 _Worth it_ , Peter thinks, wheezing quietly.

 

\---

 

“I shall need the full unencumbered use of your home,” Mozzie says haughtily. “You may leave for an hour or so while I sweep for bugs and other nefarious paraphernalia.”

He’s carrying a suspiciously beeping briefcase clutched tightly in one hand. He looks nervous. It's been a while since he's set foot in their house. Peter would almost feel bad for him, except he‘s being ordered out of his own damn house. 

This is for Neal, Peter reminds himself, stamping down the urge to drop-kick Mozzie’s diminutive butt out of the front door.

“Expected this,” Neal says, already tugging on his jacket.

“We could get frozen yogurt,” Elizabeth suggests, unbothered. 

“A _full hour_ ,” Mozzie reminds everyone loudly. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Peter says, “how did this become my life?”

Alex will show up eventually, Peter’s sure of it. Probably along with a host of other unsavory characters. All of his parties and backyard BBQs will now be an exercise in blatantly ignoring the illegal activity surrounding him like a low background hum. From now on, he’ll have to think really hard before wandering into rooms where quiet conversation are taking place, deciding first if it isn’t something he’s really better off not knowing. 

His life has become messy, complicated. 

It is, Peter figures, watching Neal help El into her jacket as she holds her long hair up over the collar, smiling slightly as Mozzie twists and beeps and glares impatiently at them all, going to be one hell of a ride.

 

The end.


End file.
